


A Game without a Victor

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angsty Introspection, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, M/M, Meant for Each Other, Off-screen Sexual Content, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock's asexuality comes into question, but not in a fluffy way, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the tide turns against Sherlock, he gets sick of always being on the outside looking in.</p><p>A study of Sherlock and James, two sides of a fucked-up coin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Game without a Victor

There’s a name no one says, and it rolls around Sherlock’s tongue like a prayer. He finally has a face to go with it, a voice ludicrous in its animation and still so sinister, so enthralling. He doesn’t drink but he feels heavy and intoxicated with the memory of it.

Moriarty is nothing like Sherlock, not really. Once you get past the superficial similarities, they couldn’t be less alike. But they both understand how the other thinks, so it doesn’t matter. They might as well be twins.

Moriarty makes Sherlock feel the way other people must feel all the time. His head swims with facts, data, all the information gleaned from appearance and sound and personality but he can’t make it fit into a single whole. Who is James Moriarty? A fan, an enemy, a rival, a challenge. He’s certainly not boring.

The sociopath and the psychopath – what a pair they made. Just from those few minutes at the pool Sherlock could tell this man had more charm in his pinkie than Sherlock could ever possess. He doesn’t feel inadequate about it; simply acknowledges they’re different. Sherlock’s never needed to impress anyone but he manages it all the same. Moriarty seems content to keep his pleasant persona in the shadows, and sometimes that seems simpler.

Sherlock helps people, not because he wants to save them, but because he wants to win. Moriarty chases the elusive cure for his boredom by becoming more and more outrageous. If Sherlock believed in fate, he might say they seemed destined to satisfy each other. Two opponents, twisting the world around them into one big duel of wits, an endless to-and-fro between two so perfectly matched neither could ever truly come out on top.

Moriarty is every obstacle, every empty afternoon. He makes Sherlock’s life better and worse in the same breath. They’re equally obsessed, a condition almost like love. Everyone says love and hate are basically the same thing anyway, but Sherlock wouldn’t know. He didn’t feel the world the conventional way. But then neither did Moriarty.

*****

It comes to a head one night. Sherlock gets in a cab with very unorthodox programming, and when he yells to stop the driver just carries on. The car pulls up outside a completely boring apartment block, tasteful but ordinary, and Sherlock’s out the door before the wheels even stop turning.

Of course it’s Moriarty – who else would it be? Who else ever got close to Sherlock Holmes? His own brother didn’t know him as well as this complicated stranger.

“You.” But it’s not an accusation; it’s the answer to everything.

“Don’t act so surprised.” Moriarty grins. He reads between the lines _between_ the lines.

“What now? Tarnish my name?”

Moriarty looks insulted. “Too easy. The fallen idol, no, that happens every day. It won’t hurt you as much as Cassandra’s curse.”

“To never be believed,” Sherlock whispers, “To be ignored.”

“What do you think will happen when Sherlock Holmes’ already tiny world cuts down to just him? Will you miss them, Sherlock, those people you dismissed so readily before?”

Sherlock meets his eyes and finds a fierce emotion that’s made up of many: anger and desperation and disappointment, perhaps.

“Have I let you down? Did you expect more of a fight?”

James shrugs. “I’d hoped.”

“You never hope. We don’t leave anything to chance. We don’t trust.”

Moriarty looks around. The street’s busy but Sherlock’s leaning in through the driver-side window like no one else exists.

“We, Sherlock? That’s my line.”

“Maybe I’m sick of being misunderstood.” Sherlock barely breathes.

 

Moriarty opens the door slowly, locking the stolen cab behind him. He walks into the apartment building without looking back and Sherlock follows without hesitation. There’s only been a handful of times in his life when he wasn’t sure what was about to happen, and this is top of the list merely because for the first time he isn’t sure what he wants. Moriarty could kill him, chain him up, torture him, play chess, drink wine, watch bad TV and still Sherlock would feel as calm as he did standing in the lift beside the genius. It felt right, this thing between them, though he had no idea what it was.

Moriarty leads him to an apartment and opens the door. It's spacious, well-furnished in bold reds and blacks, but cold. Comfortable but not homely, nothing like the messy lived-in feeling at Baker Street. Sherlock loves it. It’s honest.

“Drink?”

“No thank you.”

“Cigar?”

He raises a brow at Moriarty’s cheeky smile.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist tempting the addict in you. Something harder then?”

Sherlock can’t tell if he’s serious or if it’s just innuendo. Would Moriarty really have drugs hidden in some corner of this clean, heartless home? Doubtful but you could never tell.

“Certainly.”

“Oooh!” Moriarty giggles, “Sherlock’s going off the deep end!”

“Why not? It hardly seems to matter anymore.”

 

Moriarty comes closer, looking up at the other man. He seems to be searching for something.

“Don’t tell me you crack so easily, Sherlock? Seems hardly worth my time now. Depressed you is just disappointing.”

“I’m not depressed. I’m not broken. I’m finished being broken.”

“And falling off the wagon is your definition of being fixed?” he snorts.

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s human.”

There’s so much contained in that one word. James presses closer, almost touching the detective.

“Is that what you want, Sherlock? To be human? To be normal?”

“That’s not possible for people like us.”

“But maybe we can help each other close the gap a little.”

James’ eyes are steady, restrained. He reaches up and takes Sherlock’s jaw in one hand, and there’s no passion in the kiss that follows. It feels fitting, it feels pleasant, it feels inevitable and Sherlock enjoys it without anything stirring beneath the surface. He has no need for more, but he won’t turn it down either.

“Come to bed, Sherlock Holmes.”

It’s not an order nor an instruction nor a request. It’s the next line in the script.

*****

He lets Moriarty take him apart with his hands, his mouth, his teeth, his cock – lets arms bind him and legs caress until his voice is ragged and rough. He returns the touches in a manner that belies the scientific heart of him, forcing sounds from the smaller man that don’t seem to suit their game. Sherlock feels nothing and everything, no sense of guilt or self-loathing or disgust, no love or tenderness. There is only the lust for his other half and the knowledge of belonging.

Moriarty doesn’t gloat, doesn’t wonder, doesn’t use cruel words. Sherlock’s not boring him, for now. He won’t change his plans and Sherlock won’t stop him, but those thoughts stay outside the bedroom. He doesn’t want to think past this yet, sinking into the new challenges Sherlock brings. Can James make him beg? Make him moan? Make him feel something other than detached? There’s no end goal, just a series of small victories, but it’s entertaining and that’s enough.

There’s a name no one says, and it flies from Sherlock’s mouth with a curse. Velvet words fall into his ears, fingers tearing at his skin harsh and warm. He stops thinking and melts away.


End file.
